


Gemendo

by Gail Riordan (lferion)



Series: Theme and Timbre [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Challenge fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Poetry, Romance, atmosphere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-07
Updated: 2001-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/Gail%20Riordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Variations on an expressive sound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gemendo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Theme and Timbre' challenge on the Master-Apprentice list,
> 
> Thank you to RavenD for giving this a once-over and letting me play in her &amp; Mac's sandbox. Thank you to Mark for friendship &amp; reality-checks, Layna for enthusiasm and encouragement, and the San Francisco Symphony for aural inspiration.
> 
> Ambiance: Nielsen - Symphony #5

Gemendo: moaning, moaningly.

The wind moaned among the spires of rock, through the stubs of ancient, brittle trees, over the curves and hollows of tumbled boulders, the humped, damp houses. The streams and puddles were ruffled by the swift air, heavy drops splashed from every edge and branch. The sky was a high and distant lavender for the first time in days. Small, cold puffs of cloud scudded across it. Another storm system could be sensed building over the horizon.

First rain, now wind, thought Qui-Gon as he watched the short, tough grass bend and writhe in the wake of invisible, airy fingers. He was grateful to finally be indoors, the moaning wind shut out, on the way to being warm and clean and eventually dry. Only to get soaked and muddy again tomorrow.

Why did people persist in building in flood plains? Because the land was fertile, and most of the year the climate more moderate than in the hills and highlands. An old, old tradeoff.

His sodden cloak dragged at shoulders that ached from hours of working to hold the weight of water and earth by will and muscle, force and Force. Sodden, mud-caked boots dragged at his feet. He should get out of his wet things, clean his boots before the leather was stained permanently purple-green. His stomach rumbled. There had been no time for food since daybreak. He should turn up the heat under the ever-present crock of chashgorm, so it would be hot and reasonably edible by the time Obi-Wan returned from his labors.

The Master made himself move. Heard himself moan as he let the heavy cloth slip from his shoulders and then had to turn quickly to catch it before it made a sticky, wet heap on the floor he would be forced to bend over to pick up. Stiffened, chilled muscles protested the movement. He had stood still too long. He hung the cloak on a peg by the door, promising to attend to it later, when it would be dry enough to cope with.

He sat to remove the boots, made himself put down the catch- cloth and wipe off the worst of the clinging muck, and then leave the abused footwear to dry by the vent. Without thought he left room for his Padawan's boots beside his own. Consciously he flexed and stretched his cold, cramped toes, peeling off two layers of clammy socks. At least the floor was warm. These people understood hypocausts, even if they didn't understand levees and flood control.

Heat up under the food crock. Water on to fill the bath. The small jet of flame made a comforting hiss, the water in the pipes gurgled and moaned. Steam began to rise and curl upward from the big tub in the corner behind the screen. The deep splash of bath water drowned the cold sound of the wind still pushing at the expanse of window, the edge of the door.

He tackled his hair while waiting for the tub to fill. He wished Obi-Wan were there to comb it for him - a task they both enjoyed - but it would be foolish to wait. The wet strands snarled around his fingers and knotted in the comb, but he did not allow the annoyance to ruffle his patience in this. Patience and care would see it all smooth. He used the task as a small meditation to release the tangles in his feelings about the frustrations and exhaustion of this mission. Patience and long practice would work everything out.

Qui-Gon sighed as he sank into the deliciously hot water, chilled flesh tingling with quickening circulation. He stretched and twisted to work the kinks out of his spine, making little noises of discomfort and then relief as the aches and tightness eased. Then he submerged completely, letting the water seep all the way through his thick hair, letting the heat soothe his scalp. Tension floated away with the steam.

Under the water he did not hear the door open, the brief crescendo of air and water complaining outside before Obi-Wan could shut it out. Busy with soap and sponge and hair he did not see his damp and wind-blown apprentice, eyes as changeable as weather, brighten at the sound of soap and sponge and scrubbing. Did not hear him breathe deeply at the sight of the wet planes of his Master's back, the wet strands of hair framing his Master's profile, the high forehead and distinctive nose, the startling beauty of wet lashes against wind-roughened cheeks. Ducking again to rinse away soap and mud and strain he was not aware of Obi-Wan swiftly ridding himself of his own sodden garb in gleeful silence.

Qui-Gon surfaced from the soapy depths to find sky-coloured eyes smiling at him, and a well-grown, well-made, well-loved and well and truly interested form stepping into the bath to join him. Ah, the energy of youth. Age did not prevent him from heating in response. He opened his hands and heart as he had opened his eyes, drinking in the bright presence even as he was drunk in likewise. His Padawan was back, at his back, as he had wanted.

"Obi-Wan." He moaned softly as necks bent and their lips met, as their bodies met and fit together in the hot silk of chuckling water.

"Qui-Gon." His apprentice chuckled.

A hand slipped between his legs, clever fingers caressing him, teasing him hard. An answering hardness sought its accustomed place between his cheeks, quick and eager. Tongues twined as lips and hands worshipped.

He moaned again as their mouths parted, but bodies did not. Obi-Wan was smiling at him, fire and love glinting in his eyes, sparkling between them. He found himself giving voice, husky and low:

"O let winds moan and wuther where they will,  
Let rain and weather dash against the hill,  
Let waters rage, the streams and rivers fill,  
Let cloud and tempest smite the land with chill,  
For we abide, together, safe within;  
These well-wrought walls are strong, no blustering din  
May pierce our close content, &amp; no wet wind  
Drown this warm hearth, nor our twined hearts unspin.  
      Such shall not make us moan, or ever still  
      The breath that binds the loved soul to its twin."

Obi-Wan's eyes were laughing, but his voice held only love and desire. "My poet-Master. The wind may have inspired you to words, but you inspire me to action." Skin slid against skin, finding sensitive places. "And I would rather hear you moan than it."

Teeth were gently nipping at his ear, fingertips running up and down that spot at his nape. He had to catch his breath as the wet brush of his Padawan's braid dragged across his chest, peaking a nipple, kissing his breastbone.

"I would like to make you moan. I would like to make you moan louder than that wind." More touches. More movement. More soft, desired noises. "Would you like that?"

All thought of wind and weather was forgotten in the fire and delight of what Obi-Wan was doing, of what they were making together. His answer was more moan than words "Yes, oh yes."

His Obi-Wan's eyes crinkled as his grin broadened and both love and desire burned between them. "Then I shall."

And he did.


End file.
